Under Her Skin

by Adriana Anders

  “Magic wa… Oh. The laser.” The description surprised a chuckle out of George, who reached out and shook Jessie’s hand. “George Hadley. Good to meet you.”

  “Well, George Hadley, you’re a miracle worker. Also hear you do a ridiculous amount of pro bono work for people around here.”

  “Oh, I’m…” She wasn’t quite sure how to handle a comment like that. Praise wasn’t really her thing. “Thank you?”

  Jessie laughed, the sound easy, casual in a way George admired. “Seriously, though. I hear you’re just about the nicest person on the planet. I should be thanking you.” The woman indicated the couple again, and her smile softened. “For that.”

  “Not sure I can take credit for what’s happening over there. But…” George narrowed her eyes at the other woman. “I feel like we’ve met before.”

  “We have. I work out right next to your office. At the MMA school. Teach there, too. Monday nights.” Oh, of course. George recognized her now. She’d seen her arrive at the gym in the evenings, usually around the time she was closing up the clinic. “You should drop in sometime. Check out my women’s self-defense class.”

  “Oh, right. Uma mentioned it. I keep meaning to stop by.” Which was a lie. George didn’t need self-defense. She wasn’t scared of people. No, the dangers in life were invisible, microscopic things that snuck up on you before you knew it, killing indiscriminately.

  “You should,” Jessie went on. “Come on Monday. Lots of great gals.” George tried to picture it—herself in a room full of women—and couldn’t manage. Jessie leaned in, smiling, and said, “If you’re really good, we let you beat up on a couple of guys. Including my brother and…hmm. Where’s Steve?” She looked around, apparently didn’t see the man she was looking for, and grabbed George by the arm. “Come on outside. I’ll introduce you to the others. You should know Steve, after all. He owns the MMA school. Good neighbor to have, actually. Never have to worry about anyone bugging you as long as he’s in business right there.”

  Outside, less than a dozen people hung around the grill, drinking, chatting, and playing badminton. George eyed them warily, wishing she could leave, itching to head back to the office. She usually stuck out like a sore thumb at things like this—the stiff, pale-skinned woman who had no clue how to mingle.

  Jessie, it turned out, was the perfect icebreaker, if somewhat embarrassing.

  “You single, Doc?” she asked over her shoulder as they went down the back porch steps.

  “Uh…yes?”

  They approached a group of adults, and Jessie’s smile turned mischievous. “Excellent. Someone to take the pressure off.”

  “What are you—”

  “Hey, everybody. Meet George Hadley. Owns the skin clinic over on Main Street.” Hands reached out, names were given, and George shook blindly. “She’s single, too, so you can set your friends up with her now instead of harassing me all the time.”

  “Oh, I’m not—”

  Cutting her off with a wave, Jessie winked and led her a bit farther away, to where a black man with salt-and-pepper hair led a couple of kids in a game of badminton.

  “Steve! Want you to meet your neighbor.”

  The man looked up and smiled with a wave before whacking the birdie hard at the biggest of the kids. “I’ve seen you. You’re the doc next door.”

  “Yes. George Hadley. And you’re the sheriff.”

  “Yes, indeed. Good to meet you, ma’am,” he said, and George got the strangest twinge of déjà vu. First Andrew Blane and now this man, making her feel so official.

  “Please call me George.”

  “Well, please call me Steve,” he said, finally leaving the game long enough to come over and shake her hand. “Glad to finally meet you. We’ve been wondering when you’d come over and see us.”

  They had? “Oh. Business is—”

  “He’s just bugging you,” said Jessie, who must have felt George’s discomfort.

  “You got that big place on Jason Lane, right?”

  “Um…” How did he know that?

  Jessie leaned in again. “Cops. They know everything.”

  George breathed again. “Yes. That’s my house.”

  “I just rented a place on Jason Lane,” Jessie went on happily.

  “Yeah?”

  “End of the cul-de-sac.”

  “Oh. I’m in the farmhouse.”

  “Hey! Right down the road! Awesome!”

  “Like Dr. Doolittle over there,” Steve said. “One hell of a setup you got. Like a jungle.”

  “Um. Thank you?”

  “Yes, you should take it as a compliment,” said Jessie, leaning in to swat the man on the shoulder. “Right, Steve?”

  “Definitely. Compliment. Being a widower’ll make you just say what you’re thinking.”

  Funny how being a widow had never brought that out in her.

  “Shouldn’t you be working tonight? Independence Day and all?”

  “Yep. Down a couple of deputies right now and can’t find a replacement to save my life,” replied Steve with a weary sigh and a glance at his watch. “Gotta take off.”

  After the sheriff left, George’s eyes swept around the party, the people laughing and playing, lazing around and talking so naturally. First Uma and Ive’s closeness, so intimate she’d felt almost dirty watching, and now these uncomplicated-seeming relationships, people looking so companionable and natural together. A chest-squeezing burst of envy surprised her with its strength. This, exactly this, was why she never went anywhere. She’d forgotten, after so long, how very much it hurt to see so much happiness in one place.

  She turned to Jessie. “I…I’ve got to go.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for showing me around. Would you mind giving the uh…the lovebirds my regards? Or regrets or whatever?”

  “Regards. Sure.”

  George extricated herself from the party with little fuss and headed back into town, to the clinic. To escape, get some work done, maybe a little research. She wouldn’t admit to herself that what drove her was an unhealthy curiosity about a six-foot-something man whose sordid story was etched into his skin.

  * * *

  Clay noticed the tail as soon as he pulled back into town. He couldn’t believe it, actually, had been so sure his new old truck would offer him a sort of force field in a community like this one. Virginia plates and all.

  Apparently he’d been wrong, because as soon as he hit Blackwood city limits, he acquired a police escort.

  There was nothing wrong with the truck. He’d made sure of that before taking it off the dude’s hands. And there shouldn’t have been anything wrong with his credentials, but that was something he hadn’t wanted to risk—a bumbling country cop plugging him into the system was the last thing he needed at this point. Fuck. The sooner he got rid of Ape’s goddamned gift, the better. He glanced in the mirror, wondering if he wouldn’t have been better off in some anonymous urban setting like Richmond or DC, after all. No, they knew him there.

  As if on cue, the blue lights went on behind him, and the siren bleeped once, twice. Okay, good, at least they were keeping it subtle. He hadn’t thought about the possibility of this happening, hadn’t considered how he’d play it, but he’d been around law enforcement long enough to know how to avoid setting off the worst alarm bells, so he pulled over, rolled down the window, got out his wallet, and waited.

  “Afternoon.” The man approached cautiously from behind, kept his distance, clearly eyeing him through his mirrored sunglasses—precisely the same ones Clay wore, although this man was small, wiry, and African American.

  “Afternoon, sir.” Well, Clay knew how to play the game, too, if he had to. He didn’t want to antagonize, but neither was he going to give the cop the upper hand. He kept his aviators on, wishing he’d asked the doctor for some kind of bandaging
. Now would be a great time to hide the 5–0 on his eyes and the DEAD MAN on his knuckles, with their sickly smiling skull.

  “License and registration, please.”

  Clay lifted his wallet slowly, keeping both hands in sight—palms up in an effort to hide the ink—pulled out Andrew Blane’s license, handed it to the man, and reached for the newly signed title.

  “You got insurance for this vehicle?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Clay handed it all over, he pretended not to see the man examining the back of his cab.

  “Didn’t you have a different vehicle yesterday, son?”

  Son? Jesus, I’m not in Kansas anymore, am I?

  “Yes indeed.” He craned his neck just enough to read the name tag pinned to the man’s uniform. “Sheriff Mullen.”

  “You just purchased this truck, Mr.…Blane?”

  “Just today, Sheriff.”

  “Any reason you decided to trade the old one in?”

  “It was a rental, sir.”

  “What’s your business here in Blackwood?”

  “My business?”

  “Yes. How long do you plan on staying in our town?”

  What was this, the fucking Wild West? “I’m not entirely sure about that, Sheriff. Might be a few months, I suppose.” He looked over his shoulder, then back at the cop. “What was it you pulled me over for, exactly?”

  “Flickering taillight.” The man backed up a step, looked the truck over, and returned to the window, looking cocky for such a little guy. Clay wondered what kind of bullshit they used to rid their town of undesirable visitors such as himself.

  “Could you remove your sunglasses, please, sir?”

  Fuck.

  Forcing himself not to hesitate, Clay pulled the shades down, baring his ink to the lawman and sitting through his slow perusal.

  “Hmm. You hold tight. Be a few minutes.”

  He kept a wary eye on the rearview as the man disappeared behind him and slid into his cruiser.

  Hopefully, the ID would check out, and everything would be fine. If it didn’t…no point worrying until the worst happened. And nobody knew about the Andrew Blane identity. Not his boss or Tyler. Nobody.

  A few minutes later, the sheriff returned and handed everything back to Clay.

  “Check out?”

  “Yes, sir.” The man turned as if to walk to his vehicle and then turned back, eyes narrowed with a tight smile on his lips. “Welcome to Blackwood, Mr. Blane.”

  Clay watched the cruiser pull a U-turn and take off in the other direction before he started his new truck and slowly drove into the quaint downtown area.

  Already on the cops’ radar. Great. Why the hell did I choose this place?

  Okay, so maybe he’d head to Miami or Atlanta or someplace where he wouldn’t stand out like such a sore thumb. He could get his ink taken care of there, prep for court, and lay low until he had to testify.

  As he drove through town, the skin clinic appeared on his right, and just as he passed it, Dr. Georgette Hadley emerged, dressed in a light, flowery dress instead of the jeans she’d worn the evening before, and he couldn’t help but slow down to watch her. Her legs were sexy, curvaceous, strong-looking, and…man, they were pale almost to the point of translucence, lending a fragile quality to her that he hadn’t noticed behind her serious doctor facade. He knew he should keep going—not stare at her like some kind of creeper—but the way she moved kept drawing his eyes.

  In the rearview mirror, he watched her walk from her hippy car to the clinic, unlock it, and enter, her skirt swirling as she pulled the door closed behind her, exposing a swathe of clear, white thigh—before he rounded the bend and lost sight of her.

  Fuck, that thigh. Not a mark on it. No ink, no scars, track marks, or bruises. He didn’t think he’d seen such a pure stretch of body in… He blinked at the ghost of her reflection in the mirror and focused on the road. Ever.

  After that, Clay drove on to his motel and holed up, ready for a long, vodka-infused night inside, all thoughts of small-town cops and curious locals wiped away by that one, vulnerable peek of the doctor’s soft-looking thigh.

  * * *

  Back at the office, close and still and sweltering, she booted up her computer. Only rather than catching up on patient files as she normally would on a night like this, she walked back to exam room 2, reached into the garbage can, and pulled out a sheaf of paperwork—torn in two, but still completely legible.

  I want to help him, she thought. He needs help.

  Guiltily, she scanned the sheets, only to come up empty. Nothing. They told her nothing.

  Name: Andrew Blane

  Address: None

  Phone: None

  Homeless? Was he homeless?

  But he’d stood so straight. Smelled so…good. Really good. Not like a man who didn’t wash.

  When he’d pleaded with her, even then, he’d been strong. He didn’t have that hopelessness to him that she associated with people who didn’t have a place to call their own. Although, what did she know about homelessness? He could be a nomad, for all she knew. Plus, there was that wad of cash he’d tried to give her, which spoke of an unsettled existence. Who used cash anymore?

  So, not homeless, she concluded, turning back to the otherwise blank page. Just squirrelly. He had reason to be, considering the way he looked. What on earth made a person get tattooed like that? 5–0 on his face? Announcing what? That he was law enforcement? But he didn’t look it. In fact, he looked the furthest from law enforcement she could imagine, especially with the other things inked onto him. The spiderweb and the clock.

  She’d removed enough spiderwebs, pro bono, to know what those tattoos meant—the man had done time. A felon. Possibly—probably?—a murderer.

  She reached for her mug of tea, took a gulp before setting it down, remembering the largest tattoo, the one on his back. Some kind of crest, like you’d see on a dollar bill or a modern-day coat of arms.

  She typed triangle, arrows, eagle, river, skull tattoo and the letters SMC.

  The results, once she’d sifted through them, were disheartening, but no real surprise. Photos of an outlaw motorcycle gang out of Maryland. The Sultans MC.

  Oh, crap. Her breathing picked up, and she scanned the pages and pages of results. Arrests, images of outlaw bikers. More arrests. Drugs, guns. Racketeering. Arrests earlier in the year, again in Maryland. Men in black leather vests with patches on the back. She clicked on that one, then magnified it until the image was clear—and there it was. Exactly the same as the tattoo on Andrew Blane’s back.

  Quickly, she shut down the page and rolled back a foot or two from the reception desk. She’d worked with gang tattoos before. Ink on men who wanted to get out. She’d also helped ex-cons who had chosen to erase their old lives—erase their mistakes. She’d done a few of those pro bono, because everybody deserved a second chance.

  But did this man? Did he truly deserve a second chance if he was as bad as these people appeared to be?

  She thought of the ex-Latino gang member she’d helped. She’d been perfectly willing to help that kid, but…he’d been a kid, whereas this man was older. Old enough to know better.

  Crap.

  George let her head fall on her arms. She wanted him to be a good guy. Was that too much to ask? That the man she couldn’t stop thinking about be a nice person, instead of a stone-cold killer?

  Because this attraction, this stupid attraction, would have almost been acceptable if he’d been a good person, instead of a man who’d done time, quite possibly for murder, and who’d chosen to advertise it on his skin. And some of the tattoos were recent, if she wasn’t mistaken.

  Yes, but now he wants it gone.

  She rubbed her belly—the name she’d gotten inked there and again on her arm in her youth. A lifetime ago, when she’d made her m
istake—mistakes. Bad boys, fast cars, fumbling in backseats.

  Everybody deserves a second chance.

  She rubbed, remembering. She’d had a bad phase after losing her parents—more confused than rebellious. There had been a pregnancy, an abortion, and years of doubt.

  Yes, all of that should be a lesson to George, who’d gone the bad-boy route once before. And that hadn’t gotten her anywhere. Thankfully, she’d met Tom and…well, the rest was history, wasn’t it? Just history.

  She sighed, coming back full circle. Ah, stupidity—the prerogative of youth.

  So, Andrew Blane was erasing a lifetime of transgressions, possibly youthful mistakes. Who the hell was she to judge?

  * * *

  It wasn’t until Clay’d stripped down to underwear that he realized he’d forgotten to buy Vaseline. And seeing as his knuckles and eyes burned like shit, he figured he’d better head back out to find some.

  He dressed, went back out to his new truck, and drove down the highway, surprised, on this Fourth of July, to see the lights on in Blackwood’s only grocery store—a dinky-looking place called Blackwood Grocery.

  He parked and watched through narrowed eyes as people went about their business. Naglestown, Maryland—the Sultans’ fiefdom—was just a small town, too…on the map, at least. But unlike this place, there’d been no antique stores, no cozy cafés, and you sure as hell wouldn’t find it in a guidebook. This little town, however, had one of those proud Welcome to Blackwood signs, complete with bright flowers and silly little stone accent wall, inviting you into one of America’s most picturesque villages.

  Village. Ha. Like one of the books Grandma used to read to him and Carly as kids, with little mice and gardens and porcupines with frilly aprons or whatever. But Clay knew, with absolute certainty, that what happened behind closed doors, even in places like this, was just as bad as what happened anywhere else. Sometimes small towns covered up big, bad goings-on. Naglestown had just been more obvious about it—the biker gang so ingrained that they hardly bothered to cover their tracks.